


The Mirror's Reflection

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Snow White Fusion, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Gore, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Derek Hale is Prince Charming, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, King Derek Hale, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Pining, Pining Derek, Poisoning, Prince Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Snow White Elements, Stiles is Snow White, Temporary Character Death, True Love's Kiss, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 11:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: When the King disappears, his son is too young to take the throne. Queen Jennifer takes his place and seeks to eliminate Prince Stiles.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 24
Kudos: 232





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For Z – Happy Birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had longer, I would have loved to have written more, drawn it out, and made it a full AU, but I didn't. I hope you enjoy it.

There was a cold chill to the air, the breeze rolling through the castle gardens and bringing with it flurries of swirling snow.

Claudia stood still for a moment, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sky. She let the snowflakes brush against her skin. They clung to her eyelashes and dusted her long, dark curls.

She drew in a deep breath and opened her eyes. She wandered slowly down the paths that wound through the castle gardens, listening as the snow crunched beneath the soles of her boots. The wind caught the fabric of her cape, making it billow behind her.

She walked down the familiar paths, remembering how the garden had looked before the seasons turned. She imagined how the rose bushes will look in a few months when the snow melts and Spring sets in; the blossoms in full bloom, filling the gardens with colour—white, yellow, pink, red and burgundy. Other flowers grew among the bushes; lavender, lilies, hyacinths, peonies, and more, filling the gardens with colour.

But now, in the dead of winter, the trees were spindly skeletons, their spindly branches stripped of their leaves. A blanket of crisp white snow had settled over the gardens; a blank canvas for the scene that would bloom in a few months.

Claudia roamed through the gardens, feeling the icy chill bite at her pale cheeks. She felt her body ache, her legs weakening.

She managed to find a bench and sat down, her chest tightening as she fought back tears. She let out a measured breath, trying to push back the saddening thoughts and focus on what was in front of her.

She knew her days were numbered. She didn’t know how many more winters she would see, but she knew that moments like this were precious.

As she walked down the path of the snow-covered gardens, she began to wonder what it would be like to have a child, to watch them run ahead of her down the path, their laughter ringing out across the palace grounds as they played.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to imagine what her child would look like.

They’d have their father’s personality and their mother’s looks; eyes like golden sunshine and sparkling citirine, lips as pink and as soft as a rose, and skin as pale as the snow that covered the land, but as beautiful as the starry night sky.

They would be kind, sweet, and strong, but mischievous.

A glistening tear rolled down her pale cheek, dripping from her chin and falling against the back of her hand.

Months later, Queen Claudia gave birth to a son; a beautiful little boy with dark brown eyes that turned to gold when they caught the sunlight, rosy pink lips, and pale skin with moles that charted constellations like stars across the clear night sky.

Stiles.

She held him close, his chubby hands grabbing little fistfuls of her blouse as he snuggled his face into the soft cotton. He let out a little giggle and began to babble nonsense as he smiled toothlessly up at her.

Stiles’ tiny hand wound around one of Claudia’s slender fingers.

Claudia looked down at her son, tears welling in her eyes as the boy smiled up at her, looking up at him with nothing but love.

She knew she’d never see them grow up, but seeing him smile and hearing him coo was enough.


	2. One

SIXTEEN YEARS LATER

Stiles was alone in the great hall, sitting on the cool marble tiles and leaning back against one of the large pillars as he read a book. The golden sunlight bled through the large window behind him, bathing him in the warmth of its glow.

The sound of the large doors opening echoed throughout the great hall.

Stiles looked up to see one of the young knights step into the large room.

“Jordan,” he said excitedly, rising to his feet. But the smile soon fell from his face as he noticed the solemn look on the young man’s face.

His chest tightened

The door behind Stiles rattled as a young woman entered.

She wore an elegant gown with a fitted bodice embroidered with gold thread and beading and velvety straps that sat off her shoulders. The deep plumb fabric billowed out into a skirt that flowed across the floor as she walked forward. A gold circlet sat atop her head, her long wavy black hair, pinned back from her face.

Lady Jennifer; the king’s second wife.

Jordan’s eyes met the woman’s for a moment before he turned to look back at the young prince.

“It’s about father, my lord,” the young knight said quietly.

Stiles shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. His vision was blurred into streaks of colour and light. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs. HIs stomach twisted into anxious knots.

“No,” he said pleadingly. “Please, no.”

“We were headed for the border of the Northern Hills,” Jordan explained. “He went missing in battle.”

The words winded him as if he had been struck. He felt hollow, his body shaking as his legs struggled to hold his weight. He wanted to collapse, to fall to the ground and scream and cry like the child he was, but he couldn’t; he was frozen in place.

His breath caught in his throat as tears rolled down his cheeks.

His brown eyes darkened to onyx as he watched Jordan stepped forward.

“As the prince is too young to take his father’s place, the throne falls to you, my lady,” Jordan told her.

The young man’s face was tense and pained as he took another step forward, standing before Jennifer. He lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head.

He swallowed hard, his voice void of emotion as he said, “The king is dead, long live the Queen.”

The kingdom changed that day.

The new Queen was cold and cruel.

She sent more soldiers to the frontlines to fight the army from Northern Hills, adding fuel to the fire of the war that had been raging on for centuries—so long that everyone had forgotten why they were fighting it. But none of that mattered to Jennifer; she loved to watch the chaos and the bloodshed.

She cut rations to the townspeople and taxed them, leaving many unable to afford food or housing.

But what shook the kingdom to the core was the disappearance of the young prince.

The Queen said that the prince was in mourning, but as the months passed, the townspeople began to worry.

When the prince finally did emerge, he was dressed in rags. His pale skin was smeared with dirt and his hair was a tousled mess. He told them it was a disguise in order for him to sneak out of the castle, but no one believed that. His hands were calloused and there were cuts and angry red welts around his wrists as if he had been shackled.

After that, the prince began to appear a little more often, still as dirty and downtrodden.

Stiles made his way up through the markets, passing the small fruit stalls hat were filled with produce, stands with bundles of cloth and tailored clothes on display, and merchants who smiled and greeted him as he passed.

Many sat in the shadows, huddled together as they fought off the cold. Their clothes were torn to rags and their bodies were nothing but skin and bone—so malnourished that they struggled to lift their heads or find their voices to beg.

It broke his heart to see so many people living in squalor.

A young girl caught his eye. She was no older than six years old with ratty light brown locks and icy pale skin. She was curled up against her mother’s chest. Her frail body shuddered violently, teeth chattering and limbs trembling as she clung to the fraying fabric of her mother’s robe.

Stiles slowly made his way over to their side. He shrugged off his tattered jacket and carefully draped it around the girl’s shoulders.

The little girl looked up at him, a glimmer of hope and gratitude sparkling in her hazel eyes as she smiled weakly.

Stiles returned the smile before looking at her mother. “Do you have something to eat?”

The mother shook her head.

Stiles rose to his feet. He dug into his pockets of his withered clothes for a few coins.

He made his way over to a nearby stand and bought two bowls of soup, carefully carrying them back to the mother and her child. He set one bowl down on a flattened tree stump and handed the other bowl to the mother, telling her that it was hot as she fed spoonfuls to her daughter.

He rose to his feet again and as a nearby baker brought over bought a small loaf of bread.

“It’s not much, but it’ll be stale soon,” he said, offering it to the woman. “I’d rather not throw it away.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I can’t pay you,” she said, her voice weak.

“You don’t need to,” the baker told her.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered, taking the loaf he offered. She tore off a little bit and offered it to her daughter who took it with chubby fingers and dipped it into the soup. She gently nibbled at it, her smile brightening as she looked from her mother to Stiles.

Tears of relief welled in her mother’s eyes as she watched a shade of pink warm her child’s pale cheeks.

“Thank you,” the woman said quietly to Stiles.

Stiles offered them both a kind smile.

Loud trumpets blared through the market place.

Stiles jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes widened with fear as he quickly rose to his feet and ran into the shadows.

Moments later, the sound of hooves thundering against the cobblestone paths echoed throughout the streets as the black horse trotted towards the castle gates, the Queen riding proudly atop the steed.

A group of knights followed her, riding in line as they made their way through the streets.

The sound of the horses slowly died away as the quiet chatter of the market place resumed.

But as everything settled, the young prince was nowhere to be seen.

The double doors swung open as the Queen proudly walked into her room.

She was dressed in a long white gown with billowing bell sleeves and silver embroidery and beading that accentuated her slender figure. A heavy bejewelled crown sat atop her dark curls, the blood-red ruby in the centre of it as rich as the colour of her lips.

She walked over to the large mirror that hung on the wall, stopping before it as she looked at the reflection.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” she said, her voice melodic and hypnotising. “Who is the fairest of them all?”

She watched as her reflection distorted, the old glass filling with wisps of smoke filled the old glass. A shape began to appear, the smoke drawing together and morphing into the illusion of a face.

“My queen, famed is thy beauty,” the mirror answered, “But there is one fairer I see, a gentle man whose rags cannot hide his beauty. Alas, he is fairer than thee.”

The words struck the queen, her body stiffening as a look of rage consumed her face.

“Who?” the Queen asked, her voice sense and filled with anger as she demanded, “Reveal his name to me.”

“Eyes like smoky quarts and gold; lips as soft as a pink rose; skin as pale as snow and as beautiful as the night sky,” the mirror replied. “The young prince.”

“Stiles,” the queen said through her teeth.

“As he grows, so does his beauty,” the mirror said. “Dressed in rags or jewels, he is fairer than thee.”

The Queen’s expression hardened, her composure unwavering as she said, “We shall see.”


	3. Two

The Queen sat in the towering throne, her shoulders hunched and her face set in an enraged expression. She was surrounded by darkness; the only light was the silvery ominous glow that bled through one of the large windows.

The large doors rumbled as they opened and a man stepped into the large hall. He made his way forward, stopping before the Queen and bowing respectfully.

The Queen straightened in her seat.

“You sent for me, your majesty?” the man said, his voice deep and husky.

She looked down at him.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders. He wore an old white shirt – the cotton dirtied and faded to grey – and a brown leather vest. Thick belts were wound around his hips and another across his chest. A crossbow was strapped to his back and a knife on his hip.

He had short brown hair and a scruffy beard, his hair lightened by the streaks of grey hair. His eyes were cerulean blue; vibrant and clear.

Chris Argent.

The Queen sat back in her throne.

“I require your services, huntsman,” she told him.

“I’m honoured, my Queen,” Chris said, bowing politely.

“The task I have for you is a rather gruesome one,” Jennifer said. “You are to take the prince into the Dark Woods. Take him to some grassy plain where he can pick wildflowers or something, and then while he is there, you will kill him.”

“But your majesty, he’s the prince,” the huntsman objected.

“You know the penalty for defying my orders,” the queen said firmly.

“Yes, your majesty,” Chris said, bowing his head.

“And you know the penalty for failing me.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Chris repeated.

“And to make sure you do not fail, when you have killed him, I want you to carve out his heart and bring it to me in this.”

She picked up an ornate box. The polished silver metal was decorated with carved filigree, elegant detailing, and a blood-red ruby in the centre of the lid.

Chris let out a broken sigh and took the ornate box from her as he – once again – said, “Yes, your majesty.”

The old cell was dark and cold, the musky smell of mould and damp earth lingering. The floor was covered in straw, scattered across the earth-covered stones.

A heavy wrought iron chain was bolted into the wall, the links rattling and clattering across the uneven tiles. The end was attached to Stiles’ wrist, the sharp edges of the cuff scratching at the pale skin of his wrist, leaving bloody scratches and angry red welts.

Stiles peered out the window of the door. It was early morning; the guards who stood outside his cell overnight were turning in and it would be an hour before the next shift showed up.

He hurried over the wall, feeling the grooves between the uneven stones until he found the small hole. He reached inside and pulled out the two pins.

He glanced over his shoulder at the cell door before he turned his attention to the shackle on his wrist. He slid the pin into the lock.

The sound of the cell door unlocking made him jump.

He pulled the pin from the lock, balling them in his hand to hide them as he turned around.

A guard stepped into the cell. He grabbed the chain and pulled it violently, making Stiles wince as his arm was pulled forward and the metal cuff cut into his wrist.

The guard slid the key into the lock and unlocked it, letting the shackles fall away with a loud clang.

Stiles stood still, confused. A spike of fear tore through his heart.

A second guard stepped into the room, holding a bundle of clothes. He shoved them into Stiles’ hands.

“Get changed,” he ordered abruptly.

They both stepped back, but neither stepped out of the room.

Stiles swallowed his pride. He turned around, setting the clean clothes down and stripping out of his rags.

He pulled on the blue shirt, a brown leather vest, a pair of pants and leather boots. He slid the lock pick up the sleeve of his shirt.

Once he was dressed, he straightened up and turned back around to face the guards.

“The Queen has allowed you to go outside,” one of the guards said gruffly. “There’s a man waiting down the hall. He will guard you while you’re outside the castle grounds.”

Stiles nodded slightly, his chest tightening and his heart hammering against his ribs.

He followed the guards down the hallway to where the huntsman was waiting for him.

The huntsman bowed politely before leading Stiles out the back gates and along the quiet roads. They passed the castle gates and made their way towards the Dark Woods.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, letting the fresh autumn air fill his lungs.

The huntsman led the way into the forest, the towering trees shielding the prince from view.

The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath the soles of their shoes, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling their lungs as they walked along the muddy trail, away from the grassy knolls and castle gates and further into the woods.

The tall trees towered over them, thin beams of wavering light shining through the canopy and dancing across the forest floor. The leaves were beginning to change, a few trees were turning golden or auburn as the autumn chill hung in the air.

The golden glow of the morning light chased away the cold.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, orange, yellow, and blue.

Stiles tried to ignore the way the man shifted anxiously, his body tense and his face lost in thought.

They came upon a small clearing.

Stiles stepped into the soft emerald glass, watching as the dew-glistened blades wavered and danced in the breeze.

He knelt in the grass, the earth dampening the fabric of his pants. The tips of his fingers gently brushed against the soft petals of a wildflower.

He looked up, watching as a shadow loomed over him.

The silhouette of huntsman’s broad shoulders and tall figure was stretched across the ground.

He thought nothing of it; tried to ignore him as he turned his attention back to the flowers.

But something felt off.

His eyes darted back to the shadow. He watched the silhouette morph as the man raised his arm, a blade in his hand.

Stiles’ eyes widened.

He dove aside, rolling across the grass and rising to his feet. He dug his heels into the damp earth, bracing himself for a fight.

But the fight never came.

The huntsman’s arms dropped to his side. He collapsed to his knees, letting the blade fall among the grass. He bowed his head, trying to hide his falling tears in the shadows that were cast across his face.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice broken by sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Stiles stayed silent, staring at the man. His mind screamed at him to run, but his feet were planted in the dirt as he stood his ground.

“I didn’t want to...” His voice trailed off. “The Queen… She made me…”

Chris drew in a deep breath, composing himself.

“The Queen ordered me to kill you,” he told Stiles. “She wants you dead… But I couldn’t… I’m sorry…”

Stiles relaxed, straightening as he looked at the man.

Chris looked up at Stiles.

“You must run,” Chris insisted. “You have to get as far away from here as you can and never turn back. If she finds you, she’ll kill you.”

“I can’t abandon my people,” Stiles argued.

“I know it’s hard, my prince, but you _must_ ,” Chris said firmly. “And everyone in the kingdom would agree with me; you must live. When the Queen dies, you shall take the throne and the people will welcome you as their king, but you can only be king if you are alive.”

“Until then…”

“Until then, the people will find a way to survive,” Chris said—a promise. “Until then, you must run; you must stay alive.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue.

“Go,” Chris said, his voice soft but firm.

Stiles’ legs moved before he knew it, his feet pedalling backwards.

He turned and ran.

The huntsman watched as he left, watching as his slender figure disappeared into the depths of the Woods.

There was a quiet crack as a deer stepped into the clearing, thin twigs snapping beneath its hooves as it lingered on the edge of the trees.

Chris let out a heavy sigh. He pulled his crossbow off his back and loaded an arrow into it, drawing back the string.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he raised the bow and fired.


	4. Three

His feet hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself, leaping to his feet and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted deep into the Dark Woods.

His lungs were filled with searing pain as he gasped for air.

He didn’t know how long he ran for; the sky was blocked out by the foliage and the shadows grew darker and darker until Stiles couldn’t see what was in front of him.

He kept running.

His boot struck an upturned root and his feet fell from beneath him. He toppled down an embankment, rolling down the cold earth until he came to a stop, face pressed against the cool dirt.

He sighed and braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. Fallen branches snagged at his ankles, scratching at the rough fabric of his pants and drawing small droplets of blood from the skin beneath. Their extended limbs reached for him, clawing at him like a savage animal.

His muscles ached as he pushed himself back to his feet. He drew in a few deep breaths, letting the cool air fill his lungs.

He slowly straightened and kept going. He couldn’t run, but he had to keep going.

His head spun, his vision blurring into a mess of shadows and shapes. His body wavered, staggering as he struggled to stay upright, to put one foot in front of the other.

His leg began to slow, dragging through the undergrowth as he willed himself to keep going.

But it was too much; exhaustion took its toll.

His knees gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the ground.

He felt the damp leaves cling to his cheek.

His eyes slowly fell shut as his body weakened and he fell into the dark abyss.

Stiles let out a weak groaned as he slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the glaring light which streamed through the window. He winced and turned his face away, his body aching as he tried to move.

He blinked heavily, clearing his vision.

He was inside a room that smelt of crisp pine trees and freshly baked bread.

The muscles in his neck strained as he turned to look around the room. It wasn’t well furnished; the minimalistic furnishings were a collection of odd pieces: a couple of beds of all difference sizes, old blankets that were patched up with pieces of fabric that didn’t match, three different sized dressers made of different woods, and an old arm chair in the corner of the room. It was simple and odd, but liveable.

The plaster walls were painted soft green, framing the chipped wooden window sill. Flakes of white paint were embedded in the grooves of the panels. The glass clattered and groaned in its fitting, rattled by the breeze and telling tales of age and wear.

Stiles sat up, letting the sheets fall around his waist.

The door rattled, creaking slightly as it opened.

Stiles’ heart leapt into his throat. He braced himself to run.

A young man stepped into the room. He was tall with dark skin, short hair, and onyx black eyes. HIs face was set in a composed scowl that seemed to lighten when he saw Stiles. A kind smile turned up the corners of his lips.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice deep and husky but soft. “How do you feel?”

“Where am I?” Stiles asked.

“In the middle of the Dark Woods,” the young man answered. “You’re safe here. Whatever you’re running from, it won’t find you here.”

“What makes you think I’m running from something?” Stiles asked.

“Everyone who comes here is running from something,” the man replied.

The young man crossed over to the dresser, pulling out a change of clothes before crossing over to Stiles’ side.

“I’m Boyd,” he introduced himself. “What’s your name?”

“Stiles,” he answered without thinking.

“Nice to meet you,” Boyd said with a friendly smile.

The door opened again as a young woman with long blonde hair stepped into the room.

“Oh good, you’re up,” she said cheerfully, stepping over to the side of Stiles’ bed and setting the pitcher she was holding down on the small bedside table. “I got you some water. Why don’t you get freshened up, put on some clean clothes, and come get some food.”

Stiles nodded.

Boyd and the blonde girl left the room, leaving Stiles alone to get dressed.

He pulled back the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his muscles ached in protest.

He rose to his feet and got changed—dressing in the old shirt, patched pants, jacket and boots that Boyd had set out for him.

He poured a glass of water from the pitcher, tasting the sweetness of fresh water as he gulped it down.

He took a second to ground himself before rising to his feet and making his way out the bedroom door and into the rest of the small house.

It was almost like a cottage, with the living room, kitchen and dining room all fitted into one small space. It was decorated much like the bedroom: a patchwork of mismatched furniture.

The five of them were gathered around the small space.

“Everyone, this is Stiles,” Boyd announced. “You’ve met Erica.”

He nodded to the blonde girl who moved about the small kitchen—the one who had brought him the water. She smiled sweetly at him.

“This is Lydia.”

He pointed to a girl with copper-coloured hair who sat at the end of the table.

Boyd gestured to a young man who stood in the corner of the room, slouching back against the wall. His arms were folded across his chest and his face was set in a menacing scowl. He had thick sandy-blond curls and sapphire-blue eyes and was dressed in a patched-up shirt, brown pants, and a leather vest.

“And this is Isaac,” Boyd said.

Isaac just stared at Stiles.

Stiles nodded politely.

“Sit down,” Erica said invitingly.

“I don’t mean to impose,” Stiles said shyly.

“You’re not imposing,” she replied, smiling softly. “Everyone’s welcome here.”

“Where are you from?” Isaac asked, his voice firm and demanding.

“Isaac,” Erica scolded quietly. She turned to Stiles. “You don’t have to answer him.”

“Beacon Shores,” Stiles answered, shuffling closer to the table.

“You’re a long way from home,” Isaac said.

“Isaac, that’s enough,” Boyd warned.

“Grumpy, here—” Lydia said, nodding towards Isaac. “—and I are from Northern Hills. Boyd and Erica are from Beacon Shores.”

“Where abouts did you grow up?” Erica asked.

“Within the castle walls,” Stiles answered, trying to keep his answers vague.

“You’re lucky,” Boyd replied. “Erica and I both grew up out on the farms. Is King Stilinski still in charge?”

“He’s…” Stiles swallowed hard. “He’s dead. His second wife is now Queen.”

“His wife?” Boyd said, astonished. “What about his son?”

“He’s gone,” Stiles said, dropping his gaze.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Stiles swallowed hard. This is what his life would become: a blanket of lies and deceit. He couldn’t let anyone know who he was. He couldn’t risk putting anyone else in danger.


	5. Four

Weeks passed and Stiles began to find himself at home.

The Woods were quiet; peaceful.

It wasn’t as scary as Stiles had once thought. The light was dim; the foliage filtered the sunlight, glimmers of light dancing across the ground as the breeze rustled the leaves. Regardless, Stiles found his way around alright, following the light of the small clearings throughout the woods.

Birds chirped and tweeted, filling the air with a calming ambient noise.

Stiles made his way through the undergrowth, following the paths that were worn into the earth. He held onto the canvas satchel Lydia had given him, collecting the berries and roots that he could find.

He made his way through the trees.

He found a raspberry bush, kneeling on the damp earth as he gently plucked the ripe berries from the spindly branches and gently set them in his satchel.

A strange noise filtered through the forest, the quiet disturbed by the familiar rattle of cart wheels against a rocky path.

Stiles slowly rose to his feet, creeping forward through the undergrowth towards the sound.

The trees began to thin out as Stiles approached the road.

He straightened, watched as people made their way down the beaten track, their carts loaded with cargo, some carried by people and others pulled by horses. One of the carts rolled by, the load of cargo was covered in canvas that was marked with the symbol of the Northern Hills.

 _So this is their trade route,_ Stiles thought as he watched the people pass by. _This is how Northern Hills has been getting supplies without going through Beacon Shores._

Stiles’ eyes followed the line of people until his gaze fell upon a young man who walked alongside one of the carts.

The young man looked to be a year or two older than him. He wore a worn leather jacket and a faded grey shirt. A belt was wrapped around his waist, a sword sheathed at his side. A silver triskelion pendant hung from a piece of cord that was tied around his neck. His raven-black hair was tousled by the breeze, his strong jaw shadowed by the thin scruff of a beard, and his pale aventurine eyes were focused on the road ahead.

There was something familiar about the man, something that Stiles couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The man seemed to notice someone was watching him. His gaze drifted to the tree line, meeting Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles froze.

A looked passed over the young man’s face, a sense of recognition. 

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide. He turned and sprinted back into the Dark Woods.

“Wait!” the man called after him, running after him.

Stiles ran through the thick trees, holding his bag tight as he sprinted through the undergrowth. He leapt over fallen logs and disappeared into the darkness.

He dove behind a tree, pushing his back up against the rough bark of a thick tree trunk.

He tried to slow his breathing, ignoring the thundering beat of his heart as he pressed the base of his skull back against the tree hard enough that it threatened to draw blood.

The drumming of footsteps against the ground drew closer and closer, slowing down until they fell still.

He could hear the young man’s panting, struggling to steady his breathing.

Stiles glanced around the edge of the tree, watching as the young man looked around, his pale aventurine eyes full of worry and heartbreak as he looked at the shadows of the Dark Woods.

Stiles pushed himself back further against the tree, blending into the shadows.

Finally, the man let out a broken sigh before turning around and walking back the way he had come.

Stiles waited until he was gone before letting out a heavy sigh. His trembling legs gave way beneath him as he slid to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest.

He sat there for a while, catching his breath and calming his racing heartbeat.

A thought struck him, a memory buried deep in the back of his mind. He remembered how he knew the young man.

He was the leader of the kingdom that had been at war with Beacon Shores for longer than anyone could remember.

Derek Hale, King of Northern Hills.


	6. Five

Jennifer stood by the large window, looking out across her kingdom.

She drew in a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a second as she basked in her glory.

Out the corner of her eye, she spied the polished silver box, the blood-red ruby embedded on the lid catching her attention.

A wicked smile turned up the corner of her lips.

She had everything she wanted; she had won.

She stepped back from the window, the hem of her long gown dragging across the tiled floor as she made her way over to the large mirror.

She looked at her reflection.

She wore a sleek deep red dress; the top of the dress pulled to a point and held up by an elegant golden chain that looped around her neck. A belt of golden leaves was sewn onto the dress, accentuating her slim waist. A shawl was draped over her forearms, the dark red fabric matching her gown. Her long dark hair had been drawn back and pinned into a bun, a few loose strands framing her face. A golden circlet of woven metal and rubies sat upon her head.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” she recited.

The shadows of the mirror pulled together, forming the illusion of a face as the mirror replied, “You are fair, my queen.”

Jennifer’s smile grew.

“But the young prince is the fairest.”

The smile fell from her face, her eyes darkening as her face twisted with rage.

She looked at the silver box, stalking over to the pedestal on which it rested. She grabbed the box and hurled it across the room, breaking it open and letting the bloody heart fall against the floor.

Her shoulder heaved up and down with ragged breaths.

Her eyes snapped back to the mirror.

“Show him to me,” she demanded.

The illusion of the face disappeared as the swirl of smoke showed Stiles, standing outside the small cottage in the Woods.

She drew in a deep breath, straightening her back and composing herself.

“If you want something done right,” she said quietly to herself. “Do it yourself.”

Stiles coiled the rope around his wrist. He tightening his grip on the coarse rope and pulled, hauling the pail of water out of the well.

Boyd and Isaac had gone to fetch firewood, Erica was foraging for berries and fruit now that winter’s chill had left the land and the trees were blossoming again, and Lydia had gone to Northern Hills to trade what little they had to spare for fabric and food, leaving Stiles on his own.

He tried to stay useful: washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, and drawing fresh water from the well for when the others returned.

He filled the pitchers with fresh water before lowering the pail back into the well. He carried the pitchers inside and set them down on the table.

He heard a rustle of leaves as someone stepped into the clearing.

“Hello?” a weak voice called out.

Stiles made his way back outside, watching as an old lady hobbled out of the shadows.

She was dressed in long black robes, wrapped around her hunched shoulders. Her long hair was grey and wiry, pulled back from her wrinkled face. She carried a basket of fresh apples in the crook of her arm.

“Oh, hello dearie,” she said softly, hobbling forward on shaky legs. “You must be new here.”

Stiles nodded.

“Are the others home?” the old woman asked.

“No,” Stiles answered. “They’re out.”

“Oh,” the woman said sadly. She lifted the basket off her arm and held it out to Stiles. “I brought a fresh batch of apples for all of you. They’re lovely for baking pies with.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, taking the basket from her with a kind smile.

The woman pointed towards the trees with a shaky withered hand.

“I live on the edge of the Woods, through there,” she told Stiles. “And when the wind blows in the right direction, I can smell the freshly baked pies you make.”

Stiles nodded along.

“My husband planted an apple tree out the back of our house years ago,” the old woman continued, “and I thought you might like some freshly picked apples.”

“It’s very kind of you, thank you.”

“Please, do try one,” the old woman insisted. “If they’re no good, I’ll fetch you a new bushel.”

“Oh, um… okay,” Stiles said hesitantly.

He set the basket down on the small bench outside and picked one of the apples out of the bunch.

Stiles lifted it to his mouth and bit into the apple, letting the bitter juice flood his mouth, the crunchy flesh falling against his tongue.

Something was wrong.

The juice turned to acid, burning Stiles from the inside. He looked up at the old woman, his eyes wide with fear as she grinned at him.

He choked on his breath, staggering backwards.

His legs gave way beneath him as he collapsed to the ground. The poison apple rolled out of his hand, turning as black as ash as it rotted.

Stiles gasped for breath, strangled as he looked up at the woman, watching as the illusion broke and she morphed back into her true form: a woman with long dark hair and piercing hazel eyes. Her rose-red lips curled up in a cynical smile.

Jennifer.

Stiles stared up at her in shock, his dark eyes welling with glistening tears. His body weakened, shaking violently as searing pain flooded his veins.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over.

His body fell still.

His eyes fluttered shut.

A weak breath fell past his lips as the colour drained from his face. He fell into oblivion and death welcomed him with open arms.


	7. Six

Boyd and Isaac were the first to return home. They stepped into the clearing, arms full of chopped wood, logs and kindling.

Boyd looked up as they stepped out of the shadows of the trees. His heart sank into his stomach as his dark eyes fell up on the body that lay – unmoving – on the ground.

“Stiles?” Boyd called out.

The young man didn’t respond.

“Stiles!”

He and Isaac dropped the logs they were carrying and ran over the young man’s side.

Boyd dropped to the ground beside Stiles, carefully lifting his limp body into his lap. He held the back of his hand up to Stiles’ pale lips.

“He’s not breathing,” Boyd said, looking up at Isaac with fear-filled eyes.

Isaac knelt beside him, resting his head against Stiles’ chest—listening.

He slowly drew back, looking up at Boyd. “He has no heartbeat.”

His eyes drifted to Stiles’ outstretched hand, to the rotting black apple that lay in the grass beside him.

“He was poisoned.”

Boyd followed Isaac’s gaze, looking from the poison apple to Stiles’ pale, lifeless face. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.

There was a rush of footsteps as Erica and Lydia ran over to their side.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.

“He’s dead,” Isaac said, his words driving knives through everyone’s hearts.

“No,” Lydia gasped. “No, he can’t be.”

She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched his arm. She pulled her arm back, shocked by how cold Stiles felt.

Boyd’s face hardened. He lifted Stiles into his arms, rising to his feet and carrying the young man’s lifeless body into the patch of grass bathed in the golden glow of the sunlight.

He carefully lowered Stiles’ body onto the blanket of emerald grass, laying his arms over his chest and gently brushing strands of Stiles’ hair away from his face.

He stepped away, crawling about the undergrowth to pick a bouquet of flowers: white roses, pale daisies, veined lilies, budding lavender, strands of wolfsbane, and whatever other blossoming flowers he could find. He set them down on the ground around Stiles’ still body.

The others slowly composed themselves, wandering into the forest and collecting bunches of flowers.

Boyd continued to lay the flowers around him, positioning the stalks under his body in order to keep them upright.

Erica put together a small bouquet of daisies, lavender, forget-me-nots, wild flowers and dandelions and laid them beneath Stiles’ hands.

Boyd rose to his feet and stepped back, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked down at Stiles.

He pulled Erica into his arms, holding her close as she cried.

Isaac knelt beside Stiles.

Lydia stepped over to Isaac’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

There was a quiet shuffle of footsteps among the undergrowth as a young man stepped into the foliage. His pale aventurine eyes fell upon Stiles’ body as he lay among the bed of flowers.

Glistening tears welled in the man’s eyes as he stepped forward.

Lydia looked up at him. She opened her mouth to say something – to shout at him to leave, to run up to him and push him away, to tell him that he didn’t belong there – but there was something about the man and the heartbroken, devastated look on his face that made her words die away in her throat.

She turned away from him, looking down at Stiles

“My mother used to tell me these stories about how true love’s kiss could break any curse,” she said quietly. “If only that were true.”

Derek took another step forward. He knelt beside Stiles and leant forward, pressing a tender kiss to the young man’s pale cheek.

He sat back, looking down at Stiles.

He held his breath, hoping something would change.

It felt like an eternity.

There was a sharp intake of air, Stiles’ chest rising as the air flooded his lungs. They watched as his chest rose and fell, his breathing steadying as colour returned to his cheeks.


	8. Seven

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open.

He found himself in a room bathed with light, lying in a large bed with soft sheets and a draping canopy overhead.

He turned his head slightly, looking towards the wall where the light streamed through the window.

There was a bench built into the nook of the large window. A young man sat on that bench, his pale eyes shifting between shades of sea blue, aventurine green, and hazel as the light played across his face.

Derek Hale.

Stiles slowly sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist.

The rustle of fabric drew the young man’s attention. A look of relief passed over his face when he saw Stiles.

“You’re awake,” he said, a smile turning up the corner of his lips.

Stiles tensed, levelling Derek with a cold glare.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek reassured him.

“If you plan on using me for leverage to bargain with the Queen of Beacon Shores, I assure you, it won’t work,” Stiles said firmly.

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head, letting the words die away. He thought for a moment before saying, “I think there’s someone here you should see. Come with me.”

Derek led the way out of the room and down the large hallway. He made his way to a large oak door, knocking gently before opening it. He stepped inside, gesturing for Stiles to follow.

Stiles stepped into the room. It was decorated much like the one he had woken up in, but what caught his attention was the weak figure that lay in the bed.

He looked older than he was, and yet exactly as Stiles remembered. His brow was worn with wrinkles and his weary hazel eyes looked at him with love.

“Dad,” Stiles said, tears welling in his eyes as he ran to the man’s side and threw himself into his father’s arms.

John wrapped his arms around his son, holding him close. The man let out a sigh of relief, holding back tears as he cupped the pack of his son’s head and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

Stiles slowly pulled back, sniffing back tears as he looked down at his dad.

John reached out, his hand trembling and weak as he gently brushed the ball of his thumb across Stiles’ mole-speckled cheek, wiping away the tears that dampened his face.

“How?” Stiles asked between sobs.

“Derek saved my life,” John said.

Stiles looked up at Derek, confused.

“I was patrolling when I found him on the edge of the Dark Woods nearly a year ago,” Derek explained. “He’d been poisoned and was dying. I brought him back here where he could get help. We’ve been able to get the poison out of his system, but the poison was dark magic; he won’t recover from it until the one who cursed him is dead.”

“Jennifer,” Stiles said.

A thoughtful look passed over Stiles’ face, his brows knitted together in confusion as he turned to look at Derek.

“But I was cursed too,” he said. “Can’t you do for him what you did for me?”

Derek’s face flushed bright red. His lips quivered as he struggled to string together words, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“I, uh… I don’t think that’ll work,” he said quietly.

Stiles bowed his head.

A blanket of silence settled over the room.

John reached out, setting his hand atop Stiles’ and giving it a weak squeeze.

Stiles glanced up, meeting his father’s loving gaze. He smiled sweetly at the man.

He turned to Derek.

“Why?” he asked.

Derek blinked in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Why did you save my father? Why did you save me?” he asked. “Our families have been at war for decades.”

“We’ve been fighting a war that has lost its meaning,” Derek replied. “We don’t even remember what we were fighting for.”

Stiles bowed his head slightly. Derek was right; the war had been going on so long that they’d forgotten why they were fighting.

“I’m not trying to win favours by saving you or your father; I just want the fighting to stop,” Derek said, his voice sincere. “I want to put an end to the bloodshed.”

“I agree,” Stiles said.

The heavy door rattled as it opened and a young man stepped in, bowing as he stepped into the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your majesty,” the messenger said, nodding his head politely. “Word from the front, sir: Beacon Shores’ army is on their way.”

“Is that so,” Stiles said firmly, anger adding a sharp edge to his voice. He lifted himself to his feet and made over to the door, his eyes filled with rage and his face set in stone.

Derek followed after him, calling out his name.

“I’ll need a horse and a sword,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way down the hallway.

“Why?” Derek asked.

“I’m going to put an end to this.”


	9. Eight

Stiles watched as the line of troops marched to the crest of the far hill.

He swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the reins.

“Stay here until I give the signal,” Derek ordered, looking over his shoulder at his army. “Our fight is with the Queen, and only her. No harm is to come to the soldiers or civilians, understood?”

There was a chorus of responses.

Derek turned to Stiles and nodded.

Stiles let out a measured breath, composing himself.

He spurred his horse forward, the steed’s hooves beating the earth as he and Derek rode out to meet the army.

He watched as the commanding officer hesitated, holding up his arm to halt the army’s advances. He rode forward to meet them.

As the young knight’s face drew closer, Stiles let out s sigh of relief, slowing his horse as Jordan reached them.

“My lord, you’re alive,” Jordan said, his voice filled with relief as a smile lit up his face. “The Queen told us you were dead.”

“The Queen is a witch,” Stiles said bluntly. “She tried to kill my father and me.”

“Your father’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t have time to explain now,” Stiles said. “But I’ll explain everything later.”

“What do you plan on doing?” Parrish asked.

“I’m taking back my father’s throne,” Stiles said. “We’re storming the castle and we will fight you if we have to. So I have to ask, where do your loyalties lie?”

“With you, my prince,” Jordan said. “As they always have been.”

The Queen sat in the large throne, a smug smile turning up the corners of her lips.

She was dressed in a purple dress, embroidered with golden silk and beading that matched the embellished crown that sat upon her head. The chiffon bell sleeves billowed slighting as they lay draped over the arms of the throne.

She looked at the large mirror that had been brought down and sat nearby.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” she asked.

She watched as wisp of smoke drifted across the glass, swirling as it began to morph into the illusion of a face.

“You, my lady, are the fairest here,” the mirror answered. “But lovelier by far is the new-made king.”

A look of shock passed over the Queen’s face.

There was a loud crash as the castle gates burst open, the rolling thunder of horse hooves growing closer as the army stormed the city.

The double doors were thrown open as Stiles and Derek rode into the throne room.

The Queen froze, staring at Stiles in shock as he dismounted his horse and drew his sword, storming across the throne room.

“You’re in my throne,” he said.

“You should be dead,” she muttered.

“And you’re under arrest for treason,” Derek announced, circling around the other side of the room.

“You cannot prove anything,” Jenifer snarled. “The boy’s alive and you cannot prove anything.”

“I’m not talking about the attempts you made on Prince Stiles’ life,” Derek said calmly. “I’m talking about the attempted murder of his Royal Majesty, the King. He survived the poison and has been sheltered in my kingdom ever since.”

The Queen’s face darkened with rage.

She threw her hand out, a burst of light filling the room as she sent Derek flying backwards.

Stiles tightened his grip on his sword, charging at her.

She pulled a dagger from the small of her back, swiftly blocking Stiles’ blow.

Stiles adjusted his footing and swung his leg up, slamming his knee into her side.

She let out a sharp gasp as she staggered backwards, holding her hand to her side.

She turned her eyes to Stiles, livid.

Stiles didn’t give her the chance to recover. He charged at her again, swinging his blade.

She moved swiftly, blocking his blows.

Jennifer dodged under one of Stiles’ blows, grabbing his wrist and slamming her elbow into his jaw.

Stiles staggered backwards.

Jennifer ran her hand along the blade. Swirls of black smoke followed her fingers as the blade grew longer, morphing into a sword.

She charged forward, swinging her sword.

Stiles blocked and parried, fighting her off the way he had been trained to.

The clash of metal against metal rang out through the throne room.

“I knew I should have made sure you were dead,” Jennifer shouted. “I should have driven a knife through your heart or slit your throat.”

She slammed her foot into his gut, knocking him back against a nearby pillar. She charged at him, bringing her sword down.

Stiles blocked her blow, gritting his teeth as he struggled to hold her back.

“But I assure you,” she said, her voice dripping with acid. “I will not make the same mistake again.”

She pushed down harder, forcing against Stiles until the edge of their blades were pressed against his throat.

Jennifer let in a sharp gasp, freezing. Her eyes flew open wide.

She slowly dropped her gaze to the blood-slicked metal of the blade driven through her.

She looked back up at Stiles, her porcelain skin fracturing, darkening to black glass before shattering. The shards fell to the ground, scattering across the tiles before turning to dust and ash; swept away into nothingness.

Stiles looked back up at Derek. The man stood in front of him now, a stream of red trickling down the side of his face where he’d hit his head and the end of his sword slick with blood.

“Thank you,” Stiles said when he finally recovered enough from the shock to find his voice.

A small smile turned up the corner of Derek’s lips as he nodded and said, “You’re welcome.”


	10. Nine

Things returned to normal after that.

With Jennifer gone, the King began to recover and once he was well enough to travel, Derek escorted him to Beacon Shores; home. His strength grew by the day, but he was still weak, and until he had fully recovered, Stiles was to take his place on the throne.

Stiles did well. He spent time who his people, retuning the money they had been taxed, handing out food and blankets, and helping his kingdom recover.

Stiles made his way up through the markets, passing the small fruit stalls, stands with bundles of cloth and tailored clothes, and merchants. Children ran about the streets, their laughter ringing out through the air as they played.

Lydia, Boyd, Isaac and Erica had come out of hiding: Boyd and Erica found work at the bakery, baking fresh pies from the fruit that the local farmers brought them. Isaac was taken in by the huntsman and spent his days with Chris, hunting game or gathering food and supplies for the kingdom. Lydia found work with the seamstresses, using her money – although Stiles had offered to help her out – to buy fabric and sew clothes for those who had nothing more than rags.

There was a quiet buzz of chatter as many people turned to look at a newcomer who made their way through the streets.

Stiles turned, looking at the young man.

He was dressed in a black leather jacket, a dusty-blue shirt and dark pants. His raven-black hair had been raked back from his face. His dark hair and tanned skin made his pale eyes seem more vibrant.

Derek.

He slowed to a stop when he met Stiles’ gaze, bowing politely.

Stiles nodded in return.

Derek stepped over to his side.

“Forgive me for my attire,” he said.

“I think you look rather nice,” Stiles said as he looked him up and down, a small smile playing across his lips. “Care to join me for a walk?”

“I’d love to,” Derek replied.

Stiles led the way through the market streets and into the castle. The sound of the busy streets slowly faded away behind them as they made their way into one of the sitting rooms.

“How are you?” Derek asked after a moment, his voice soft and caring.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh.

“The throne feels a little too big for me yet,” he admitted.

“That feeling never really goes away,” Derek reassured him. “All you can do is the best you can. And, believe me, you’re a great king.”

Stiles bowed his head, trying to hide his bashful smile.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you come here today?” he asked. “Surely, not just to check up on me.”

Derek smiled. “Not to check up on you, but it is delightful to see you.”

Stiles looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.

“I came, hoping we could talk about putting an end to the war.”

“Consider it ended,” Stiles said. “I’ll send word to the borders and tell them to allow your people to pass. You’re welcome to use our trade routes; I’m sure it’ll be much better than travelling around the Dark Woods.”

“I appreciate that,” Derek said. “But I have another idea.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked, his curiosity piqued.

“I’d like to abolish the borders,” Derek said. “Unite our kingdoms.”

“A kingdom with two names, two kings?” Stiles questioned.

“I relinquish my throne to your father,” Derek replied.

“I think it’s a good idea, but you’d have to get my father to agree to this,” Stiles said.

“Combine the kingdoms,” John repeated, thinking it over.

He was sitting up in his bed, resting back against the pillows that were laid against the bed head.

He looked much better. His weary face was worn with the wrinkles and lines of his age, but he looked a lot younger and a lot more lively than he did when Stiles saw him in Northern Hills.

“The war was started over a disagreeance about where the borders of our kingdoms lie,” Derek reminded him. “If we eliminate those borders all together, then there’s no chance of history repeating itself.”

John nodded.

“By the time everything is sorted, you will be well enough to take your place on the throne,” Derek explained, “and, at that time, I will gladly relinquish control to you.”

“What would we call this kingdom?” John asked. “Northern Shores?”

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles said quietly.

A smile lit up John’s face. “I rather like the sound of that.”

Stiles led the way out into the gardens, walking down the small paths.

They passed the rose bushes that were in full bloom, filling the gardens with colour—white, yellow, pink, red, and burgundy. Other flowers grew among the bushes; lavender, lilies, hyacinths, peonies, and more, filling the gardens with colour.

Stiles stopped, turning his attention to a velvety-soft cream-coloured rose. He reached out and gently brushed his fingertips against the delicate petals.

“You never told me how you broke the curse,” Stiles mused, not looking away from the rose.

Derek’s pace faltered.

“I, uh…” he stammered.

Stiles straightened and turned to face him.

“You kissed me,” Stiles said.

Derek blinked in surprise. “How did you—?”

Stiles shrugged. “Lydia told me.”

Derek bowed his head, trying to hide the bright red blush that coloured his face.

Stiles smirked, turning away from Derek and sauntering down the path.

Derek drew in a deep breath, composing himself, and followed after Stiles.

“But there’s still something that confuses me,” Stiles said.

“And what is that?” Derek asked.

“Lydia said that ‘true love’s kiss’ broke the spell.” Stiles stopped, turning to face Derek again. “Is that true?”

Derek paused.

He let out a deep sigh.

“Yes,” Derek admitted.

“How could you love me?” Stiles asked, his brow furrowed with confusion. “You didn’t even know me.”

“I did,” Derek replied. “Years ago, back when I was thirteen or fourteen, there was a ceasefire. My mother came to visit your father and she brought me with her. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. The entire time I was here, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I’d watch you talk to the knights and play with the kids in the streets. But I was too scared to talk to you… It broke my heart the day my mother and I left; I thought I’d never see you again.”

Stiles looked at him.

“Then, when I saw you on the edge of the Dark Woods…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head. “I spent weeks looking for you, and when I finally did find you, you were…”

“Dead,” Stiles finished.

“Yeah,” Derek said quietly. “Then Lydia said something about true love’s kiss being able to break any spell and I thought I might as well try.”

He turned to look at Stiles, meeting the young prince’s gaze.

There was a glimmer of heartbreak and determination in his eye as he said, “I’d have tried anything if it meant you’d live.”

Stiles smiled at him lovingly.

“Do you want to try again?” Stiles asked, a mischievous smirk playing across his lips.

“Try what?” Derek asked.

“Putting your lips to mine now that I’m awake,” Stiles said.

“What?” Derek stammered.

Stiles let out a soft chuckle.

“Kiss me,” he said softly.

Derek smiled. He took a step forward and gently cupping Stiles’ face in his hands, leaning in close.

“Gladly,” he whispered before bringing their lips together in a tender, loving kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after...  
> ~THE END~

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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